Please stop romanticizing depression.
Depression isn’t drinking coffee or shaky hands holding a cigarette or writing poetry late at night. It’s not sleeping in cold winter mornings or a book store visit where you meet the love of your life and they somehow put the broken pieces back with a smile.
Depression is staying home all the time and sleeping for 4 days in a row. It’s not eating. It’s tear-stained pillows and trash covering every inch of your room because the thought of cleaning it makes you sick. It’s a pill when you wake up. It’s like slow-moving traffic in your brain you so desperately want to get out of. You wanna find the nearest exit but you’re stuck. It’s therapy every Wednesday. It’s telling your friends you’re busy when, in reality, you can’t handle the thought of being out of bed. It’s a report card with all failing grades and trying to explain to your mom that you’ll do better next time when you both know you’re lying.
Depression isn’t beautiful.
